Let It Be Me

Seven

“THIS is a mistake.”

Oliver paced the length of the entryway of the Hotel Cortile, grinding his heels into the carpet on the turns. It had taken less time than he had hoped for Vincenzo to locate where Miss Bridget Forrester was staying. After all, there were only a certain number of places in the city where a young British lady of good family and comfortable means would feel at home. The Hotel Cortile was one of the many buildings that were near the Grand Canal that had, once upon a time, been the home of a great Venetian family. But like so much of Venice, the fall of the Republic had forced change upon it, and now its beautifully appointed rooms were used to board a full house of mostly British and Austrian visitors.

At least the proprietor, a Signor Zinni, told them that it had been full, up until the end of Carnival, two days ago. Now their only remaining guests were a family of ladies, the Forresters, who had somehow managed to requisition the entire second floor.

“I doubt they will stay much longer, however,” Zinni had said with visible relief. “They have all of Italy still to see.”

Then, at the faint sound of a bell, the little man had run up the stairs to the second floor with such speed that it left Oliver and Vincenzo blinking, wondering at Zinni’s obvious fear of the Forresters.

Well, Vincenzo probably wondered. Oliver was too busy running over in his mind just what they were doing there in the first place.

“You know I have no other options,” Vincenzo replied in his smooth Italian. He leaned lazily back in his chair in the empty foyer of the hotel. “The Marchese and Klein have let it be known to all of the lovely young female musicians in the city that I am in need of a student—none of them would even let me leave a card.”

Oliver grunted. “I would place faith in your reasoning—if only I hadn’t the suspicion that appealing to Miss Forrester had been your plan all along.” He shot the only other occupant of the room a reproachful look. Vincenzo simply leaned back even farther, tilting the chair back on its rear legs. As the back of the chair bumped against the wall, Vincenzo gave a loud, long yawn.

A yawn. He yawned. Oliver stopped pacing. Perhaps Vincenzo was not overly concerned with why Zinni was so fearfully attentive to the Forresters. Perhaps he was not concerned about any bloody thing.

“How can you be so easy with the mess you’ve created?” Oliver rounded on him. “You remain undisturbed by the gauntlet you threw down to Klein; you have no fear about what will happen if you lose. You don’t even seem to care about using Miss Forrester to your aim—that is, if you can persuade her to do so, given that you called her a little prostitute less than a week ago.”

“I did not think she was a little prostitute. I assumed she was a whole prostitute, with no equivocation.” Vincenzo chuckled at his own joke. “Who else would come to the street door?” But seeing that Oliver was not smiling, he sobered, letting his chair drop to all four legs with a thud that echoed across the empty foyer.

“I am not concerned about persuading the girl to become my student because she traveled across the Continent with that intention. I’m sure an apology will erase the previous misunderstanding.” Vincenzo began studying his fingers, the picture of a collected individual. “Besides, if she is still unhappy with me, I’m certain I can find a way to . . . change her mind. A young, impressionable thing like her.”

Oliver felt all the blood in his body rage through his veins. He knew what that meant. Vincenzo thought to persuade Miss Forrester the same way he had persuaded Antonia Galetti to forgive him. Suddenly, green eyes flashed through his mind. As green as the lagoon at dawn. Wide, nervous.

Adoring.

A knife twisted in his gut.

“Miss Forrester is a young English lady,” he warned, his voice coming out cold as ice. “She is not like these Venetian girls, who know the rules to those games.”

“Then she will be all the easier to win over.” Vincenzo waved his hand dismissively. “Come, come, this is all a debate about the thinnest of possibilities. Of course she will want to be taught by me; I have no worries about the girl.”

“No worries whatsoever?” Oliver’s eyebrow rose skeptically. “What if she can’t play?”

Vincenzo met his eye, deadly calm.

“You are the one who told me she could.”

Oliver could not debate that point.

“Oliver!” Vincenzo called, breaking the silence that had fallen. “You said the girl could play.”

“Yes, I did, but—”

“And we both know I have no other options.”

“For students, but—”

“Then that is all there is to it,” Vincenzo stated with finality.

Oliver was on the cusp of vehemently disagreeing, as there was very much more to the matter, but before he could, the sound of a throat clearing brought their attention to the staircase, where Zinni stood, his back straight with propriety.

“Signora Forrester will see you now.”





What were they doing here?

Bridget stood frozen at the door of their sitting room in the Hotel Cortile, her eye glued to the keyhole. Normally, she did not spy. She was far more likely to burst into a room and confront than stay behind curtains and listen.

Amanda, however, was far more accustomed to pressing her ear to walls.

“See!” her sister whispered excitedly. “I told you! Now aren’t you glad you came out of your room?”

In the week since they arrived in Venice, Bridget had kept to her room as much as possible. Her brief and disappointing interview with Carpenini had crushed her spirits so thoroughly, Lady Forrester had wondered if she had caught some sort of wasting disease from the travel. Luckily, Molly the maid had managed to keep their excursion to themselves, and Bridget had not been missed in the half hour they had been gone, so when she had said she was simply overwhelmed by the crowds of Carnival, it was taken at face value.

But when Carnival ended and the Forrester ladies had an entire floor to themselves (which somehow, Lady Forrester had managed to overtake before all the other guests had vacated, persuading the gentlemen to give over and bunk two to a room to accommodate them), Bridget was still uninspired to go out, which made Lady Forrester call the doctor.

But when the doctor pronounced Bridget healthy, it made her throw up her hands.

“We rush here to Venice, and now you don’t want to see it?” Lady Forrester twitched about the room in frustration. “You don’t even want to send your note to Mr. Merrick? Bridget, you always were a fickle child, but I do not know what has come over you of late!”

Didn’t they realize she was in the deepest mourning? For the hope that she had for greatness? For her lost illusions? Venice, the most beautiful city in Europe, had no color for her now! Its canals held no charm, merely inconvenience. Its buildings were no longer masterful works of architecture, they were instead overdecorated boxes falling to ruins. Food had lost its flavor. Music, its melody.

Carpenini had taken one look at her and dismissed her. Like everyone else did.

Well, no, not like everyone else did. He was far more base.

When she confided this in Molly, the only one who knew the true depths of her sadness, she was rewarded with a roll of the eyes and a request that she vacate the room for at least a half hour, so Molly could change the sheets.

But now Signor Carpenini, the master himself, was taking tea and biscuits in their hotel. With her mother!

“What is he saying?” Bridget whispered to Amanda. “I can’t hear anything.”

“Try this,” Amanda replied, handing her a drinking glass. Bridget turned it over in her hand, unsure of what to do, until Amanda rolled her eyes and took it back, and showed her how to place it between the door and her ear.

“. . . studies . . . pianoforte . . . biscuit? . . .” Words came through muffled, and out of place.

“I still can’t understand.” Bridget handed the glass back to Amanda.

Amanda sighed. “Well, there is only one thing more to do.”

“What?”

And with the meanest possible little-sister smile, Amanda reached past her, opened the sitting room door, and let Bridget tumble through.

All eyes fell on Bridget. Her mother’s. Mr. Merrick’s. And . . .

There he was, smiling at her. Vincenzo Carpenini. His face lighting up for her, and only her.

She felt for certain that she had stopped breathing.

“Ah, there you are Bridget,” her mother said blithely, as both men rose to their feet to make their bows. “I have some interesting news. Signor Carpenini has offered to become your teacher.”





Oliver watched as the wide green eyes of the girl in front of them came to land on Carpenini and stay there. Her face paled, making the freckles that covered her skin stand out in stark contrast. There was little doubt that the young lady was surprised to see them—but what worried him more was the awestruck quality that had taken Miss Forrester over.

“I am sure you must be very surprised to see Signor Carpenini, and Mr. Merrick,” Lady Forrester continued, squinting at her daughter slightly. “Especially considering that we had not yet gotten around to leaving a card with either of them.”

Miss Forrester—Bridget—seated herself tentatively next to her mother on the settee, her gaze suddenly shifting from Carpenini’s face to Oliver’s.

“I . . . I am sorry, Mother,” Bridget began, stumbling over the words in a soft voice. And suddenly, Oliver knew that his suspicion was right: Miss Forrester’s visit to them had been clandestine. And he felt the overwhelming need to protect her from her mother’s scrutiny.

“Miss Forrester did write a note,” he blurted out, surprising everyone in the room, including himself. “Just a note. It was very proper, I assure you. She . . . she said your family was in Venice and wondered if I might have Carpenini’s address, to apply to him about his offered lessons.” Oliver tamped down the flush that was threatening to rise to his face. This was not a lie, he told himself. It was simply . . . an improvisation of his lines. “I thought it might be a nice surprise to bring you Carpenini instead.”

“Bridget, is this true?” her mother asked.

“Ah . . . it is as Mr. Merrick says,” Bridget replied hesitantly. Then, latching on to the fiction they were spinning around themselves, “Of course, you are Mr. Merrick. I recognize you . . . from when you came to visit us in Portsmouth.”

“And I you,” Oliver smiled at her. A smile that he hoped conveyed what he meant to say. Do not worry. It is safe. I will protect you.

“And I recognize you as well,” Carpenini interjected smoothly. “How could I not recognize the girl who played so beautifully all those years ago? Of course, you are no longer a young girl.” At this last, his face broke into a beatific smile.

That delightful blush that had captivated Oliver when he’d last seen Miss Forrester again spread across her cheeks. Its effect this time was no less potent. But this blush’s cause set Oliver a bit on edge.

He knew that most women’s reactions to a man of Carpenini’s fame and talent were admiring. And that admiration usually bought the man a certain amount of forgiveness. But a girl who would cross a continent on a single letter . . . she would be in far more danger.

“I was so pleased to discover you were in Venice, Miss Forrester,” Carpenini was saying. “Indeed, I was just saying to Oliver that I wished for a student of true talent, and it was so unfortunate that my business keeps me here, when such a student is in England!”

“What luck,” Lady Forrester replied, as she poured herself another cup of tea. “I’m certain Bridget would very much enjoy—and benefit from—your instruction while we spend the next few weeks in the city. What do you think, Bridget?”

The younger lady opened her mouth to speak, but Carpenini interrupted.

“Signora, I am afraid that I would want to instruct the Signorina for more than a few weeks. Now that I have the opportunity . . .”

“But we are on a tour of the Italian peninsula,” Lady Forrester replied smoothly. Almost as if she were negotiating. “Confining ourselves to Venice would be criminal.”

Carpenini shot a helpless look to Oliver.

“In fact, as Venice has so far unimpressed my daughter, we were contemplating traveling at the end of this week.”

Miss Forrester sent a look of complete shock to her mother. Obviously, the girl was not expecting to leave Venice so soon. Especially not now that Carpenini was sitting in front of them.

“But, er, Mother,” the girl ventured, “I would think that now, considering the opportunity . . .”

“Yes, my dear,” Lady Forrester replied sharply, staring daggers at her daughter. “But perhaps if we traveled south and found warmer climes, your disposition might improve.”

Oliver had to suppress a grin as he watched Miss Forrester suppress a snort.

“Besides,” Lady Forrester continued, “I hate to be so gauche in front of company, but we hardly planned to have the expense of unending lessons. Traveling is so much more costly than one expects, isn’t it?”

The command in Lady Forrester’s voice, the sly way she played her cards, the way she said no but then invited them to argue against her: Oliver suddenly realized what this game was all about. Lady Forrester was negotiating with them, and by the gleam in her eye, hidden beneath a studiously resigned expression, she enjoyed it considerably.

“Lady Forrester, on that score you should have no worry,” Oliver replied smoothly. “For Signor Carpenini is offering to tutor Miss Forrester gratis. For free.”

“He is?” both ladies asked at once.

“I am?” Vincenzo asked, alarmed. “Er, that is, of course I am.” He smiled at Lady Forrester, then Miss Forrester. “It has been long that I was allowed to teach someone with talent. I will enjoy the opportunity.” Vincenzo’s Italian accent flowed charmingly over his not-quite-fluent English, making the ladies smile, and not just politely.

Then, under his breath in rapid Italian, he laid into Oliver. “What the hell are you doing? I could have made a fortune! You are the one always complaining of funds.”

“True—but if you are going to use her to save your career, I would not have her pay for the privilege,” Oliver fired back, in the same language.

“Gentlemen.” Lady Forrester’s English broke into their conversation, although she did not look pleased. For one breathless moment, Oliver was afraid that the woman understood what they had said, but then he realized she was merely disappointed by the lack of a fight over price. “I think that sounds lovely.”

“So we are agreed?” Carpenini’s face broke into a smile.

But Lady Forrester simply turned to Bridget, regarding her. Oliver glanced down and saw that the girl had taken her mother’s hand and given it a short, sharp squeeze. A message. Apparently he and Vincenzo were not the only ones able to have private conversations in company. “That, I believe is up to my daughter,” Lady Forrester answered. Then she rose. “Would you all excuse me a moment? I should speak with Signor Zinni about the possibility of extending our stay.”

And, with the light of bargaining once again restored to Lady Forrester’s face, she left her daughter to entertain the gentlemen callers. But not before issuing a curt nod to the maid just inside the door (the same one who had accompanied Bridget to Oliver’s home a week ago), a silent directive to keep an eye on the goings-on.

When the door clicked shut, silence fell down onto the room. Miss Forrester, her wide green eyes never blinking as she turned to look from Oliver to Vincenzo, back to Oliver again, and then, finally to the abandoned teapot.

“M–More tea, Mr. Merrick?” she asked, scooting over on the settee to take her mother’s place by the tray.

“No, thank you, Miss Forrester.” He saw the nervousness in the smallest shake of her hands, the uncertainty in her very skin. “Er, I know it must seem strange, given the circumstances of the last time we met—”

“Oliver, she does not wish to speak of that,” Vincenzo broke in. “She was foolish to interrupt, and I was foolish enough to have such an angry temperament. But I promise, my dear, it is only when I am composing.”

He smiled at her again, obviously hoping to put off her unease. But, to her credit, Bridget Forrester proved less malleable than Vincenzo probably liked.

“No, I think it should definitely be remarked upon. Especially considering what you are asking of me.”

Both Oliver and Vincenzo went very still. “What do we ask of you?”

“I don’t know!” The girl practically exploded from her seat, sending cups scattering to the floor. The maid leaped from her position at the door to gather the broken pieces.

“Oh, Molly, I’m so sorry,” Bridget said suddenly, on the verge of tears.

“It’s no difficulty, miss,” Molly demurred. And then with a sharp look to the two men, she muttered, “I understand why you are so upset.”

“Yes!” Bridget cried. “I am upset. But I am also confused. A week ago, you had no idea who I was, Signore, even though Mr. Merrick wrote to me on your behalf. And now you seek me out, and you wish to become my musical instructor? For free? This smacks of something underhanded, and I do not know what it could be.” Her voice began to tremble with vehemence. “Are you planning to make fun of me? Because I have had plenty of that in my life and I could easily do without it, thank you very much.”

On this last, Bridget’s voice broke completely, and the smallest sob escaped. But she stifled it. She beat it back with an unseen resolve. But even that resolve could not stop her frame from shaking with every breath.

“My dear Miss Forrester,” Vincenzo began, “there is nothing, as you say, underhanded—”

“Tell her,” Oliver said bluntly, before he could stop himself.

Vincenzo shot him a look that told him he would prefer Oliver to be on fire at that very moment. But he didn’t give a damn.

“If Miss Forrester is going to put her hand in with us, she had better well know what it is all about. About the mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” He turned to meet those unblinking green eyes. “Miss Forrester, you are feeling badly dealt with, and you should be. You are right that Signor Carpenini does not remember you. Because he didn’t. I wrote you that letter, because I remembered that you played very well, and thought to drum up some business for him, but that is beside the point at the moment. What is important is that Signor Carpenini finds himself in reduced circumstances in this city. He has lost his patronage.” Vincenzo’s face went red with fury, but he said nothing. Indeed, it seemed at that point that anyone would be hard pressed to stop Oliver from continuing his narration.

“And now, he thinks to earn his patron’s favor back again by challenging the Austrian composer, Herr Gustav Klein, to a musical competition. Klein produces his best male student, and Carpenini produces his best female student, and whoever plays better is pronounced the winner. It’s as simple as that. Except that Signor Carpenini has no female students. No students at all, in fact.”

Oliver finished his speech, letting silence come into the void. Even Molly, the maid, had stopped scraping up pieces of china in the wake of these revelations. Miss Forrester slowly lowered herself back onto the settee.

“So . . . you need me to perform? In a competition?” she asked slowly. “In public. Now?”

“No. In May,” Oliver answered, when Vincenzo refused to open his mouth.

“All . . .” she began, and then collected herself. “All I had wanted was to learn . . . to learn everything I could.” She took a few more moments, swallowing the information, her eyes on the floor but darting back and forth as if reading something written on the rug. As if searching to come to terms with what had been said.

“Is this true?” she finally said, looking directly into Vincenzo’s gaze.

“Yes,” he replied curtly, his accent thick but his words unobscured. “I do find myself in a trouble that only you can help me out of. I am—how do you say—alone in Venice and no musician—man or woman—wants to work with me. I live on Oliver’s charity. I even find myself in a bitter black humor because I . . . because composing does not come as easy as it once did.”

Oliver’s eyes shot to Vincenzo’s face, surprised at this last admission. It was a vulnerability that he had not expected to hear. Neither, apparently, had Miss Forrester. She gazed at him with sadness and sympathy.

He’s reeling her in, Oliver realized.

“It is all true,” Vincenzo continued, his voice becoming low, mellifluous. “Except for one point. I do remember you.”

Oliver’s head came up slightly, surprised.

“You played while your sister sang a sad tune. ‘Tom Bowling,’ was it?”

“Yes,” Miss Forrester replied. “I was playing it too cheerfully, and you corrected me.”

“Yes, I remember.” He sighed, somewhat wistful. And Oliver felt his brow come down. What were the chances that Carpenini actually remembered Miss Forrester’s playing, instead of simply using what Oliver had told him?

“You were very good. I remember at the time wondering why anyone would ruin such excellent playing by having an inferior singer. Most people would only see your sister—older, is she? Pretty.”

At Miss Forrester’s stilted nod, Oliver knew that Vincenzo had found a wound to needle. And now, he was going to exploit it. Just as he had with Gustav Klein.

“It’s very hard to be overshadowed by a sibling, but you would be used to it. Your friends, society—even your parents—they favor the other. But that does not mean you have to like it,” Vincenzo continued, drawing Miss Forrester to him, bringing her to the edge of her seat, as he sat on the edge of his.

“If you come train under me, I will make you the best piano musician in England. Ladies’ parlors will be too small a venue for your talents. You will be sought after, admired. People will want you.”

Vincenzo, at some point in the conversation, had taken Miss Forrester’s hand, which had gone limp in her lap, all sense of nerves gone. He now raised it to his lips and held it there.

“It will not be easy. I will work you harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. But in the end you will win this competition, the respect of Venice, and I . . . I will be forever in your debt.”

He held her eyes. Oliver held his breath, hoping for a different answer, for some defiance that would protect the girl. But he knew her words, even before she said them.

Her voice was small but sure. On her face rested a look of desire, ambition . . . and endless adoration. She was completely under Carpenini’s spell.

“I’ll do it.”